Breaking Point
by Scarlett Rogue
Summary: After an emotionally draining night, all it takes is one snotty comment from Sally before John snaps and gives her a piece of his mind. Johnlock slash.


**Summary: After an emotionally draining night, all it takes is one snotty comment from Sally before John snaps and gives her a piece of his mind. Johnlock slash.  
**

**Rated: T for copious amounts of f-bombs. You have been warned.  
**

**Requested by fmapreshwab and written because 1) this person is cool and deserves it, and 2) Sally is a bitch and deserves it.**

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John wasn't exactly sure what Sherlock's nightmare had been about, but he knew it was bad enough to set both men off their game the next day. Sherlock moved in quick jerks, hardly staying in one spot for more than ten seconds, and had dark circles under his eyes. He was used to getting less than adequate sleep, but he wasn't used to waking up crying uncontrollably.

John thought the night would be wonderfully peaceful. He had convinced Sherlock to come to bed with him, and after a bit of snogging and cuddling, Sherlock's head lay in the crook of John's neck, his breathing even and one leg slung over his lover's waist. John was absentmindedly stroking his curls and sleepily watching the small twitching of his hands and feet when Sherlock yelled out of the blue.

John almost shit himself right there.

He shook the younger man, yelled out "Sherlock!" loud enough to pull him out of his nightmare. Sherlock lurked up, blinked rapidly, looked at John with this far off, vacant expression, then burst into tears. John couldn't think of anything else to do but hold him close. He thought Sherlock would pull away quickly; he didn't really like showing vulnerability. Instead, he wrapped his thin, long legs around John's waist, buried his face in john's chest, and cried for a good thirty minutes, at least. Every time John thought it was over the younger man shook violently and a new wave started. He clung to John like a lifeline, like the older man's arms around him where the only thing keeping him from completely falling apart.

He dreamed about the cabbie with the pink pill, that huge room with one set of doors. He dreamed that it was John in the room instead of him, pill in hand, testing his chances with a crazy, desperate man. He dreamed that he was the one standing across the building, watching helplessly through glass, yelling John's name but knowing he couldn't hear. John's head was leaned back, the pill centimeters from his tongue, and Sherlock shot at the cabbie. But Sherlock didn't have John's aim, and John had chosen the wrong pill.

They lay awake all night, holding each other, a tear slipping from Sherlock's sad eyes every once in a while to land on John's chest. They held each other and whisper endearments and promises of never leaving each other until the sun rose and they were forces to go out into the world and act as if nothing happened, as if nothing changed between them.

But Sherlock was a mess this morning and John wasn't much better.

He checked each body carefully, trying to determine the time of death that, according to Sherlock, the team had once again gotten wrong. He wasn't sure what the time was yet, but five seconds of investigating proved Sherlock correct.

"These people didn't jump in front of a car, they were pushed."

"What makes you so sure of that?" Lestrade asked. It seemed like a regular suicide case besides the fact that there were two bodies in the same area, apparently hit by cares. The way the bodies where damaged made it seem as if both man and woman jumped in front of the car, rather than being hit unknowingly.

"John?" Sherlock inclined his head.

"Right, yes. The camera over there on the right saw the bodies fall onto this point at 12:14 am; however, the time of death, assumed by _your _team to be between 12:13 and 12:18, is actually more likely 10:30 pm."

Lestrade was giving his team his absolute best death glare.

"In conclusion," Sherlock finished, also giving the team a rather nasty look. "These people were already dead when their bodies collided with the car, sending them flying and landing right here." He pointed to the spot where both bodies lay. "Someone murdered them and threw them at the car to cover their tracks. Clever cover up, but not clever enough."

Sherlock strode away from the bodies and folded his arms across his chest impatiently.

"Excellent. Thank you, gentlemen. Your help is much appreciated," Lestrade said. His tight voice suggested a '_since my team is useless_', but nobody said anything about it.

"Are we done for now?" Sherlock asked as John came to stand next to him. Sally and Anderson were watching Sherlock with bitter jealousy, and John had the sudden urge to place himself between his lover and the two people, to protect him.

"Are you in a hurry?" Lestrade's eyebrows pulled together in concern. Many noticed Sherlock's odd (more odd than usual) behavior and John's sloth-like movements, but they all just brushed it off. Lestrade was the only one looking deeper into it.

"Course he is. He's just seen dead bodies, so naturally he has to go wank in front of his skull head," Sally sneered.

"WHAT THE FUCK IS YOUR PROBLEM!" All motion stopped as everyone stared, wide-eyed, at the usually friendly doctor. John's face had went from slightly tan to red in two seconds flat, and he was watching Sally with a look bordering on murderous.

"E-excuse me?" Sally stuttered.

"Why do you _always _have to insult him? Is your life so pathetically boring that you feel the need to spice it up with a little bit of being an obnoxious bitch?"

"I am not a-"

"Please, Sally, you're a bitch and you know it! And why shouldn't you be? I bet it just eats you alive to have someone else do your job better than you, doesn't it?"

"He does not-"

"HE DOES!" John was fuming, barely aware of Sherlock holding onto the edge of his coat, as if preventing him from leaping forward. "And _everyone _knows it! Sherlock may be many things, but the truth is, you don't give a damn what his mental state is or what he's got laying round his flat. You're just jealous as all fuck because he's smarter and more competent than you'll ever be. He makes you look bad, _and you can't stand it. _So instead of working harder and actually doing your fucking job, you became a bitch. Because that's going to get you _so far _in life."

John turned on his heels, fists balled tightly, and grabbed at Sherlock's purple scarf.

"Come on, Sherlock, we're leaving!"

John didn't spare another glance at the group standing behind him. He didn't see Sally's embarrassment or Anderson's shock or even Lestrade's approval. He sensed Sherlock walking behind him, hailed a cab, and climbed in quickly. His legs was bouncing up and down as the cab pulled away and Sherlock told the cabbie where to go. In his fury, he hadn't noticed Sherlock looking at him until they were almost back at Baker Street.

"What?" he muttered as they got closer. Sherlock had the most intense look in his eyes; shock, amazement, a hint of lust, and something much softer, something deep-rooted, something he had never let anyone see before.

"I love you," he breathed in awe, pulling John close and pressing their lips together in a soft but passionate kiss.

And suddenly John was feeling much better.

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**::EDIT:: And as you can see, I made a fuck-up. Right in the first line. Because he DID know what the dream was about. That, ladies and gents, is why you don't go into the writing process with little to no idea where you're going with it. Anyway, I like the line and refuse to change it, so I, Allie, admit to fucking up, and let's move on :D...I'm also swearing A LOT tonight, my apologies.  
**

**Omg, woah. My bad, people, this wasn't supposed to be quite as angsty as the beginning made it seem, nor was John's outburst supposed to be that big. I got a little carried away in both areas, I guess. I just _really_ hate Sally. Anyway, review, pretty please! And I take requests, so throw those at me as well!**

**AND YAY, MY 100TH FIC! *celebrate good times, come on!***

**On a final note, my tumblr is nerdypuff, so go follow me (at your own risk, of course).**


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